


All My Love

by passion_dies



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Love Letters, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28802454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passion_dies/pseuds/passion_dies
Summary: George confesses his feelings for Dream through a letter.What follows is more than he'd bargained for.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. Soulmates

Dream,

I can’t remember the last time I’ve written a letter. It’s been years, surely, because why would anyone write a letter and wait weeks for a response when they could send a text instead? The magic of dropping a crisp envelope into a postbox wears off quickly during the days spent gazing out the window, wondering if those little pieces of paper will really make it across the ocean to that special person’s doorstep. You can’t know if they’ve received it unless they tell you, and even if they read it, a response is never guaranteed. Writing takes time. It’s personal, more personal than typing a quick message on a keyboard. 

I hope you can read my handwriting. I’m not used to using a pen anymore. Holding it feels unnatural. My fingers are already starting to burn.

Despite all its faults, I hope that you’ll understand why I chose this method to share this information with you. There’s comfort in all of the uncertainty. I’m not entirely sure that I want you to read this. The only reason I’m writing this down is because I can’t deal with it anymore. I need to let my emotions out, fully and honestly, and I can’t do that unless my words are directed towards you. 

You don’t have to reply. You don’t even have to let me know you got this letter. All I ask is that if you do read this, you read it in its entirety. 

I’ve thought a lot about how to describe the way I feel about you. We’ve known each other for years, and throughout that time, a lot in our lives has changed. Both of us have changed. You’ve grown a lot as a person, Clay, and I am so proud of you for that. You have a drive unlike anyone else I’ve known. When you set your mind to something, you’ll stop at nothing to accomplish it, and that’s an admirable trait to have. I’m sure most people who know you, even those who just know the parts of you that you share with the world, can recognise that. 

I’m lucky enough to see you as you are, entirely, without the filter of the Internet. I can feel your tenderness on early morning calls when your voice is low and soft and filled with the sweetest words. I feel your patience when you settle petty fights between our friends. You’ve always been good at playing the mediator. You can keep a level head through nearly anything. I feel your generosity almost daily. It isn’t just directed at me and the ones you care about, it’s shared with so many people who you’ve never even spoken to. You don’t brag about it, either. If anything, you try to cover it up and play it off as nothing, as if you’re embarrassed about being a good person. 

I’ve always had a hard time with labelling people as “good” or “bad”. What makes someone good? Where is the line drawn? Surely, good people have faults, but when do their faults amount to enough that they should be categorized as a bad person? I wouldn’t know which one I am. I’d like to think I’m a good person, because everyone likes to think they’re good, but I have plenty of flaws. I might have made too many poor decisions to be considered “good” anymore.

It’s different with you. I feel confident that, as a whole, you are good. I know your flaws. I’ve been on the receiving end of your outbursts, taking the sting of the harsh words you’ve launched at me in fits of anger. You know me as well as I know you, which let you hone your attacks towards my weakest and most personal points. Some of the things you’ve said still stick with me, no matter how hard I’ve willed them to go away.

I know you’re a good person because you never leave things that way. Once the rage subsides, you stitch together the wounds you’ve opened with heartfelt apologies and genuine guilt. You always take responsibility, even if I contributed, and you won’t act normal again until I offer forgiveness. 

My nan told me about soulmates when I was little. I’m not talking about the cliche, romantic tales of lovers destined to be together forever. According to her, a soulmate is someone who understands you in a way that nobody else does. You connect on a level that’s beyond our understanding. They can even see parts of you that you don’t know exist. You can tell them anything without fear of judgement because you know that even if nobody else in the world could comprehend what you’re going through, _they_ could. Sometimes, you don’t even need to speak. The comfortable silence of being in each other’s company is enough to make you feel… safe.

Warm.

Loved.

The love you feel for a soulmate is overwhelming. It’s indescribable and unconditional. It’s eternal. Nothing can break that kind of bond. 

I didn’t believe that those types of relationships existed until I met you. A child can’t imagine a love like that because they haven’t been through enough pain in their life to see how easily relationships can shatter. Even the strongest ones crack under too much pressure. You don’t see it until your friends stop answering your texts, or your parents give you their teary-eyed confession that they’re splitting apart. As you grow, you start to understand that love is fragile. It is something to be careful with. I’ve always been afraid to invest myself fully in it because one conversation could light the fuse that causes the entire relationship to end in a messy, painful explosion. I’m too weak to handle something like that.

I think that’s the reason I chose to tell you like this. 

There is no doubt in my mind that you are one of my soulmates. 

I can’t tell you how I know this. It’s a fact, so obvious that my brain would never begin to question it. I feel attached to you by this... invisible force. It tugs at me, gentle but insistent, constantly reminding me that you’re there. The annoyance has faded into a peaceful resignation, something as familiar to me as the rattling hiss of air filling my lungs. I’m grateful for it on lonely nights when my mind is racing and the specks behind my eyelids twist into ugly spirals. It holds me in a comforting embrace, reminding me that there’s someone like me in a world that feels so empty. It pulls me back into reality before I fall off the edges of my consciousness into oblivion. I don’t know if I could cope without it anymore.

I need you. It’s embarrassing to admit it. I’d never be able to say it to you, but I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone else. I’ve invested too much of myself into you to live in a world where I don’t know how you’re doing every day. I rely on our casual conversations to get me through my worst nights. I can always count on the sound of your laughter to brighten the best ones. You’re a given in my life, from the second I wake up to my phone buzzing with your messages to the fuzzy moments where I drift off to the sound of your voice in hours-long calls. You’re a permanent itch in the back of my brain, and when you don’t scratch it, it consumes my thoughts until I go mad.

This is the part that I’ve been afraid to tell you. I’m still afraid. My hands are shaking, so sorry if it’s hard to make this out. 

I can’t move on until I write it, though. I’ve gotten this far. This is the third time I’ve tried to write this letter. I can’t crumple up this page and toss it under my bed again, because next week I’ll be here at my desk, staring at another half-filled page. I’m ready to do this now.

I’ve never felt like this for anyone before. You fill my chest with a warmth that is so strong it burns. It isn’t the flutter of airy excitement you get when someone pretty smiles at you. It’s a heavy weight that clamps down on my lungs, an aching desire that makes each breath sting. I thought it would go away, but it’s been building for ~~months~~ nearly a year. It gets worse every time I hang up and have to sit in silence, worlds away from you after feeling so close. I cry sometimes. Sometimes, even crying is too much, and instead I have to squeeze my eyes shut and focus all my energy on sucking in gasping gulps of air until it passes. 

I don’t know how to make that feeling go away permanently. All I know is that I want more of you. I’m not even sure how much I want, or how that would work out. 

I know I want to be around you. My brain wants to prove to itself that you’re more than a disconnected spirit on a screen. I’ve dreamed about the most mundane things, like how it would feel to run my nails up the base of your scalp into messy, unkempt hair. I’ve imagined how our hands would fit together, wondering if your palms would be sweaty and your fingers would be rough and calloused. I want to hide my face in the spot where your neck and shoulders meet and fall asleep there, lulled into unconsciousness by the warmth of your arms and the steady thump of your heartbeat.

I’d move to America for you. I know you’re close to your family and wouldn’t want to leave them. That’s fine. I’d miss my family and my pets and my bed, but I could call somewhere else home if it meant I could be with you. It would be worth it if I could get rid of the pain.

And if you feel the same way about me that I feel about you, I’d want you to tell me. We wouldn’t have to tell anyone else. It would be enough for both of us to know, and for both of us to share that type of love for each other. I can’t comprehend loving anyone else as much as I love you. I never imagined myself settling down with someone and promising my life to them, but for you, I’d do it without question. 

We wouldn’t have to rush into things. I realise, now, that I’m being too forward. We could go slowly, testing the new boundaries in our relationship before we push them further. You could decide if I’ll be enough for you. I wouldn’t mind it, however long it takes. 

I’m confident that you would be enough for me. Whatever you’re willing to offer would be enough. 

At night, right before I fall asleep, I often fade into the perfect future I’ve built for myself in my mind. I’ve spent many hours there. In that world, you confessed your feelings for me one night and I admitted my own to you. Everything worked out beautifully. You came here and whisked me away on a months-long adventure through the world. I’m still on that part. There are new things to see every day, ancient remnants of societies past that you always know everything about. I love seeing the way your face lights up when we spot something you’ve only seen on a tiny screen, or the way you call my name when you’ve found something new to give me a lecture about. When the sun sets, we stay outside in the warm air. We’re always alone under the moonlight. I’m not afraid to lean the weight of my body against yours, and I don’t shy away when your lips press a tender kiss against my temple. 

I want it so badly. 

I’ve had to remind myself, though, that life is never perfect. There’s a difference between what we want and what we need.

I need you, Clay. I need to keep you in my life. 

I want more than what we have, but I don’t need it. 

The thing about soulmates, my nan said, is that not all of them are meant to fall in love. There are so many different types of love, and all of them are capable of reaching that type of connection. One of your soulmates could be a family member, or even a pet.

They could be a friend. 

If you don’t feel the same way about me as I feel about you, it’s completely alright. These things are out of our control. It would be unfair of me to expect you to want more from us, and even though I would like more, I would never be disappointed with what happens between us as long as you’re still my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend. _That_ is the love that I know will remain permanent in my heart. I can let go of my other feelings if I need to.

I know you’ve gotten this far if you have read this. I trust you enough to heed my one selfish request, and I’m sorry if I scared you by sharing my feelings, but I needed to make sure you understand that our friendship comes first. 

I’m terrified of sending this to you. Now, as I look back at all the nearly indecipherable pages, the panic is starting to set in. I don’t want this to cause any issues between us. I’ve made it clear how difficult it would be to lose you.

I know you, though. I know you well enough to know that you will understand. I know that the bond we have is unbreakable. 

We will get through this. Years from now, you can mention this letter through your wheezing laughter and poke fun at me until my cheeks burn bright red with shame. I’m sure I’ll laugh along, even if your jokes are at my expense, because I’ll know that I still have you. 

As I said, your response is voluntary. I will not be waiting at the window. I won’t bring this up, even when it’s late and we’re the only two left in the call. As soon as the envelope falls into the postbox, I’ll clear it from my mind and move on, grateful that the crushing weight of never telling you this has been lifted off my chest. 

Thank you for taking that burden from me. I’m sorry if any of that weight has been shifted onto you.

All my love,

George


	2. Ten Minutes

“I guess it’s time to talk about it.” 

Dream’s voice reverberates off the crisp white walls of his bedroom, echoing in George’s ears and rattling around the confines of his skull. He’s lulled himself into false security here, sprawled out on Dream’s bed with his arms curled around a soft pillow that carries the now-familiar scent of his cologne. It’s become somewhere welcoming during his stay, a little piece of home he returns to when the sky is dark and his eyelids hang heavy.

Tonight is different. Anxiety pools in the pit of his stomach and bubbles up, boiling violently, until it reaches his chest. His eyes fixate on the ceiling, tracing each crack and wrinkle that he’s spent every night of the past three weeks memorizing. It calms him enough to allow him to choke out a weak, “I guess so,” in response. 

He can feel Dream’s gaze on him from across the room, burning a hole straight into his crimson cheek. He’d prepared for this for weeks, no, months, and yet here he is, already on the verge of falling apart before even a word has been spoken between them. 

It’s humiliating.

They haven’t discussed the letter yet. 

Nearly four months after it was sent, George still hadn’t received any indication from Dream that he’d read it. Everything had been completely normal between them. The terror that loomed in the back of his mind whenever they were in a call together subsided until it disappeared altogether, and eventually, he’d nearly forgotten he’d sent the letter at all.

That was, at least, until Dream mentioned it out of nowhere after they’d finished recording one of their videos.

He didn’t say anything about its contents. All he’d done was acknowledge that he’d read it and insist that they should meet up to talk about it in person. His tone was level and guarded, hiding any hints that might give away his feelings about what George had written. 

What else could George have done but comply? He’d delivered his feelings exactly how he’d wanted. He hadn’t asked Dream’s permission to write the letter. Dumping the full extent of his emotions onto him had been George’s selfish decision entirely. It was only fair to allow Dream an opportunity to do the same, no matter how nervous it made him.

This had been the plan all along. George bought a plane ticket with a return date exactly three weeks later than his first flight. _Three weeks._ That had been Dream’s request. They’d spend three weeks together, enjoying each other’s company unburdened by the potential emotional turmoil between them, and on the final night they would discuss the letter. 

“You want me to start?”

This time, Dream’s voice is softer. One of the best parts about being here is that he can hear Dream clearly even when he’s quiet. There’s no static from his mic or distortion on the journey to his headphones. It’s whole and pure, interrupted every once in a while by his quick inhales.

There’s a brief pause. 

“Okay. I will. I-”

“No.” 

George screws his eyes shut and lets out a shaky exhale, regretting the word as soon as it passes through his lips. His own voice sounds so weak in comparison that it’s embarrassing. He almost wishes that Dream would continue anyway, but instead he waits in silence for George to elaborate, as patient as ever. 

“I just… We could wait. Until later.”

“It’s almost one, George. We have to be at the airport in the morning,” Dream counters. His voice is firmer now, George notes, although not unkind. 

He lets the muscles in his face relax, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling again. The corner of his mouth turns up into a faint smile as he jokes, “I could miss my flight.”

That smile widens when he hears Dream puff out a quick breath of amusement through his nose. It’s soft enough that the mic usually wouldn’t pick it up. 

He’ll miss it. 

“Ten minutes,” George presses, desperate to buy himself any extra time that he can. He wants to savor every second of this light and airy feeling between them. 

He turns his head to the side, gaze drifting to Dream for the first time since the topic came up. There he sits in his gaming chair, back pressed straight against the cushion and wrists draped over the armrests. The steady rise and fall of his chest is barely visible from across the room. His face is plain and unreadable, more stoic than it’s been since his arrival.

In his hazy, tired mind, George muses that he sits with the regality of a king. It doesn’t matter that his throne rests upon a shaky, plastic foundation, missing wheel and all. His baggy sweatshirt drapes over his body like a cloak, once a dark red that faded into a soft cherry after too many cycles through the wash. He lacks a crown, but his head looks better without it, covered in shaggy caramel hair that’s long overdue for a trim. 

Here, in his kingdom of messy clothes and broken electronics, he rules benevolently over his lone subject. It only takes one pleading look from George for his face to crack. He brings one of his hands up to rub the sleep away from his eyes as he caves.

“Alright, ten minutes. But only ten minutes, I’m serious.”

Hearing those words sends relief flooding through his veins. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and pulls the pillow up behind his head, preparing to settle in for a quick rest. If he’s convincing enough, he could pretend to fall asleep to avoid the conversation altogether.

He doubts Dream would believe him, though. He’s never been a good actor.

His plan is foiled before he can even consider it. The chair squeaks from across the room, followed by heavy footsteps that stop at the side of the bed. 

There’s silence. George refuses to look.

Suddenly, the bed shakes as the weight of another person is dropped on it, frame creaking under the unexpected strain. George is nearly launched off the edge by the momentum, fingers digging into the sheets in a panicked attempt to steady himself. “ _Dream!_ ”

Breathless laughter booms behind him. It eases his pounding heart, and though he wants to look angry, his cheeks ache with a grin so wide it hurts before he’s even turned around to see his attacker.

This isn’t the first time they’ve been this close. 

On the night he’d arrived, they’d stayed up for hours, discussing everything they could think of. It was incredible, but it was draining, especially after a long day of travel. He’d reclined in Dream’s bed and shut his eyes at some point, fully intending on continuing the conversation. The next thing he remembered was waking up to the sound of faint snoring in his ear and hot breath on his neck. 

From then on, it was an unspoken agreement that this bed had become _their_ bed. They’d spend every second they had together, even if they weren’t awake. It was surprisingly normal and completely platonic.

For the first time, George really allows himself to study each and every curve of Dream’s face. Staring is rude, and staring at your friend is uncomfortable, but this is his last opportunity to take it all in. 

There’s a faint scar on the bridge of his nose, thin and pale and jagged. Years ago, he’d told the story of how he’d earned it. Something about a fight with his sister that went too far. It’s old and fading now, unnoticeable unless you’re paying close attention. George absently wonders if it’ll still be there the next time they meet in person.

His freckles are more pronounced than George had expected. They pepper his cheekbones with tiny brown specks on his otherwise flawlessly bronzed skin. 

His eyes are easily the most defining feature of his face. He’s hesitant, at first, to look into them. They’re a pale blue-green. His pupils are tinged with trace amounts of brown. They stare back at him, soft and curious, as if he’s observing George the same way. 

It doesn’t last long. Embarrassed, George breaks the eye contact after what couldn’t be more than a few short seconds, focusing instead on a poster behind Dream’s head. It’s one of the few things hanging from his mostly-bare walls.

He flinches when the silence is shattered by a soft sentence.

“What’s on your mind?”

There’s no good way to answer. 

All of his thoughts are consumed by the man in front of him. He’s known Dream for years, but here, he’s gotten to know Clay. 

He’s learned Clay’s whole face scrunches together when he howls with laughter. His eyes crinkle and water, spilling small tears of happiness over ridiculous things that he shouldn’t find as funny as he does. Slender fingers cover his mouth in feeble attempts to control himself, usually only succeeding in prolonging his giggling even further.

At night, when it’s late and he’s tired, Clay smiles more often. He’s loud and energetic to compensate for his body’s exhaustion. Sometimes, he blares music and dances around his room like a madman, singing at the top of his lungs until his voice is scratchy and broken. If George laughs, it only spurs him on further in his silly antics. He won’t stop until he’s out of breath and his eyelids droop lethargically. It takes him less than a minute to fall asleep after the lights are turned out on those nights.

When Clay’s nervous, he scratches the base of his neck. He tries to make awkward small talk, stumbling over his words and trailing off midway through sentences once he’s thought better of them. It’s different from his polished online personality. Clay’s confidence wavers at times, visible in the tight and uncomfortable expression that flashes over his features. 

George knows, now, that Clay needs reassurance in stressful situations. If something goes wrong, he needs someone to remind him that it isn’t the end of the world. A solution might not be obvious, but that doesn’t mean it is nonexistent, and Clay requires encouragement to find it. He’s talked him through things as minor as an issue with his keyboard. It’s endearing, in a way, even if he wishes Clay believed more in his ability to handle those types of things on his own.

His stomach aches with a pang of guilt, because after tonight, he won’t be here to help him through it anymore.

“I’m going to miss you,” George whispers, meeting Clay’s gaze again. 

This time, concern is reflected back at him. He isn’t sure why until he feels a warm tear slip down his own cheek. His hurried hands wipe at both of his eyes and press protectively over them, shutting out any further judgement. 

He’s kept himself together for the entire trip. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s a prideful person. Crying in front of someone hurts on a deep level, igniting a burning shame inside his core that can’t be put out. This type of vulnerability is reserved for long, lonely nights in the comfort of his own bed. It isn’t meant for his best friend, and it certainly isn’t meant for something this insignificant.

“I- I’m sorry,” he stammers, taking a shuddering breath to calm himself. 

He hears an exasperated sigh. 

“Oh, c’mon, now. You’re really saying sorry for that?”

Strong arms envelop him in a tight embrace. It’s a little too tight, to the point where he can’t take in enough air to completely fill his lungs. 

He doesn’t complain. 

Instead, he removes his hands from his face and curls his own arms around Clay’s middle. He grabs fistfuls of his hoodie, desperately clinging onto the warmth that their embrace provides. On the side of his neck, where Clay’s cheek presses against his skin, he can feel a dampness that isn’t coming from his own eyes. 

“I’m gonna miss you, too.”

This closeness is what George has craved over the past year. They’d hugged at the airport, and they’d slept next to each other for the duration of his stay, but this is different. This is full of intention and emotion. He’s never felt like this with someone before. Their bodies can’t be close enough, futilely pulling each other in further as if they could combine into one being. 

It’s frustrating. It's _excruciating_. He’s never felt this much despair over something so unattainable.

It’s also the most beautiful thing he’s ever experienced. 

Clay is the first to accept the impenetrable physical barrier between them. The crushing pressure of his grip loosens, cradling him close instead of suffocating him. George doesn’t give in as easily, still squeezing with all the strength he can muster. A hand rubs up and down his back soothingly, the other still firmly wrapped around his waist. Eventually, it calms him enough to lean into defeat, letting his tense muscles relax. 

_Sometimes, you don’t even need to speak. The comfortable silence of being in each other’s company is enough to make you feel… safe._

_Warm._

_Loved._

He’d only half believed those words when he’d written them. 

His nan had been right. She’d been right about everything.

George isn’t sure how long they stay like this. He doesn’t care enough to keep track. His mind is clouded by exhaustion and warmed by the closeness, toeing the line between the waking world and unconsciousness. As painful as it is to remember that this is his last night here, he’s at ease with the way it’s ending. It couldn’t have gone better.

If only it could stay that way.

“... I think it’s been ten minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! decided to add onto this. there'll be at least one more chapter! any feedback is appreciated!


End file.
